


Guts Out in a Ring of Daisies

by zuotian



Series: Coyote Teeth [2]
Category: South Park
Genre: A Study in Redneck Country, Angst, Bars and Pubs, Character Study, F/M, Fluff, Functional McCormick Family, Good Country Music, Kevin McCormick is a Good Brother, M/M, Past Sexual Abuse, Religion, Shooting Guns, Shovel Talk, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:08:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21843466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuotian/pseuds/zuotian
Summary: “Aw, shoot.” Kevin sent him a fanged grin. “We’ll make a country boy outta you yet, Eric.”It was the first time he’d used Cartman’s actual name. Kenny had a habit of saying it under his breath, imbued with prayer; Kevin wasn’t so sentimental—he lobbed the four letters like a buckshot.Cartman looked out the window with a dry chuckle. “Alright, Kevin. You try your level best.”He watched the pines roll past, and Kevin watched him. The kid was such a complicated bundle of contradictions, sometimes Kevin wanted to gut him like a duck to see what’d pour out. He had an inkling he would regret it, once he did.
Relationships: Eric Cartman & Kevin McCormick, Eric Cartman/Kenny McCormick, Kevin McCormick/Original Female Character(s), Past Kenny McCormick/Tammy Warner
Series: Coyote Teeth [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1572889
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39





	Guts Out in a Ring of Daisies

**Author's Note:**

> this series is gonna be my new brain child for a bit. i've got lots of ideas brewing and i'm super excited to write them. you know you're breaking new ground when you've gotta type in your own tags, lol. i've taken some liberties with lore -- as in, cartman never met his father and he hasn't killed anybody. a lot of this is pulled from people i've known/conversed with, but gun mechanics is not one of those things. i don't know shit about guns. so sorry to all you gun enthusiasts. once i finally get myself to a shooting range, i'll come back and fix everything lol. i tried keeping it vague enough to work within the story.
> 
> i know it's cheesy to put italicized song lyrics in fic but i've been feeling cheesy lately, deal with it. see end notes for song links. 
> 
> i wanted to continue this piece, but it's already longer than the first installment. come back next time for an emotional follow up with cartman and kenny.

ALL CHARACTERS AND EVENTS IN THIS FANFICTION—EVEN THOSE BASED ON A REAL SHOW—ARE ENTIRELY GRATUITOUS. ALL CANONICAL DIALOGUE IS IMPERSONATED ... POORLY. THE FOLLOWING FANFICTION CONTAINS COARSE LANGUAGE AND DUE TO ITS CONTENT IT SHOULD NOT BE READ BY ANYONE.

Cartman acclimated to the family well enough. Much as anybody could, at least. He’d become like a step-brother—the Pornhub version. Kevin caught him last week outside the lean-to. On his knees in the blood-stained grass. Sucking Kenny’s cock.

Kenny had deconstructed the entire lean-to yesterday to fill the ground with cement. Kevin already told him to do that last year when he first built it. He didn’t listen, naturally. Their dad said you do something right the first time, so you don’t have to fix it the second time. Kenny’d always been too impatient and bullheaded to take anybody’s advice.

Today he was out there churning a bucket of wet cement whilst Kevin watched from the back stoop. Sweating in the autumn chill, cut-off shorts crusty with sludge, t-shirt sleeves rolled up to flaunt for his boyfriend who piddled around the periphery organizing all his art stuff into neat little boxes. What a helper—or maybe not; Cartman yanked Kenny’s braid and waved some old paintbrushes around, cawing indiscernible nonsense.

Kevin decided to join them. “How’s it going?”

“Your brother’s a hoarder!” Cartman shoved the paintbrushes under Kevin’s nose for inspection. “Look at these. They’re hard as rocks. They’re unusable.” He tapped the caked bristles, which echoed solid. “See?”

The stirring stick clunked against the rim of the cement bucket. Kenny stood, wiped his palms on his t-shirt—Slipknot logo barely visible underneath layers of muck—and reclaimed the paintbrushes. “You’re not throwing ‘em away, fatass!”

“There’d be no _point._ If I did, you’d probably go down to the dump and get ‘em back!” 

“Sounds like you two are getting alotta work done,” Kevin surmised. He examined the pit Kenny had dug and shored with two-by-fours, steel waffle grates piled next to it atop tarpaulin. “It’s gonna rain tomorrow, y’know.”

“Didja read that in the Farmer’s Almanac?” Cartman quipped.

Kenny flipped him off. “I’d be finished already if you weren’t getting in my way.”

“Ey—I’m lending valuable assistance! Who the hell else is gonna organize all this crap, Kenny?”

“I don’t need organized! I’m gonna put everything back where it was!”

“Where it _was_? You had it all in piles, you packrat!”

“Boys,” Kevin boomed, jolting them out of their fight; he was good at projecting his voice, after years of practicing hunting calls. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Whatever, man.” Kenny knelt at his bucket and resumed stirring. “This is all screwed up. I’m gonna get rained out.”

“You’d have plenty of time if you wouldn’t stop every five seconds and make excuses when I toss your _trash_ ,” Cartman sneered.

“I didn’t ask for your help, asshole!” 

“Oh, so you’d rather I sit back and drink a tall glass of lemonade? I thought you’d be grateful, you son of a—”

“I’ll take Cartman off your hands,” Kevin offered. 

Kenny’s head whipped up, gossamer fly-aways skirting with the motion. “Huh?”

“Yeah. It’ll be fun—like, we’ll bond.”

Cartman edged backwards and wound his fingers through Kenny’s hair, for all his blustering. “Whatcha mean?”

“I mean I need to go run some errands, and it’d be nice to have somebody to go with me.”

“I don’t see why not,” Kenny said.

Cartman didn’t appear convinced,  so  Kevin  plopped an arm over his shoulders and pulled him  into his side . “I’m not gonna  drive out  where nobody can hear and shoot you in the head, I promise.” 

“That’s reassuring,” Cartman muttered.

“Wait a sec—” Kenny hopped to his feet and tore Cartman out from under Kevin’s arm, gave him a big fat smooch. “Have a good time.” 

“Aw, hell.” Cartman’s cheeks flushed. “You taste like dirt.”

“Here, lemme—” Kenny scrubbed his teeth with the collar of his t-shirt and tried again. 

Kevin caught a glimpse of tongue. Cartman pulled away, all flustered. “Cut it out, whore! Your brother’s really gonna shoot me now!”

“If he shoots you I’ll shoot him. And then Karen’ll shoot me and we’ll all be dead.” Kenny licked his lips, uncurled his fingers from Cartman’s belt loops. “Don’t be late for supper.” 

“Yeah, I really don’t wanna miss out on another frozen TV dinner,” Cartman huffed, watching Kenny pixie-dance back towards the pit. His softened expression slammed shut when he caught Kevin staring at him. “Um—”

Kevin jerked his chin. “Let’s roll.”

“You’re not really running errands, are you?” Cartman asked as they climbed into Kevin’s pickup. The cabin slumped to the passenger side, but not as much as it would’ve a few weeks ago; the kid had thinned out under the measly McCormick diet.

“Nope,” Kevin confirmed.

Cartman eyed the rifle he kept in the back, the same one he’d used to kill Ted. “Should I be concerned?” 

Kevin gunned  the ignition . “ Y ou scared of me?” 

“Erm, well. I watched you shoot a wild animal pointblank.”

“That’s nothing.”

“Fuck is that supposed to mean? You’ve shot _something_ else?” 

“When the need arises.”

“Goddamn. How am I not surprised?”

The pickup careened on its high axles over the train tracks.

“I need to get me one of these,” Cartman said. “My car’s too low to the ground. Might as well embrace it, now that I’m out in the sticks.”

“I know some guys, if you’re serious,” Kevin ventured. “I got this for under a thousand. Got it running all by myself, too—I could teach you to fix yours. Be a strong male figure, and everything.” 

Cartman  raked his bangs out of his eyes. He hadn’t had a haircut since he started living with them, and would soon face the wrath of Carol’s scissors; there was more than one reason Kenny kept his hair so long,  after all.  “I never met my dad,” he said. “Don’t even know who the hell he is.” 

“Maybe that’s for the best. Most fathers aren’t worth shit. Mine’s alright, but—I got lucky. Out here, most of ‘em are piss drunk and mean. You can tell how bad by the size of their belt buckles.” 

“That’s sick.”

“It’s what it is.”

Kevin utilized the lull in conversation to crank his window and light a cigarette.

Cartman  glanced at him through the smoke. “Who’d you murder?”

“Just ‘cause I’ve shot people, don’t mean I murdered nobody,” Kevin snorted. “I’ve killed one person, though.” He didn’t mention that Kenny delivered the finishing blow, cold as ice.

“Oh yeah? What’d he do to deserve that?”

“Hurt somebody I cared about a long time ago.”

“Revenge, huh? Better late than never.”

“I’ll say.”

“Where are we going, anyway?”

“You’ll see. Why don’tcha sit back and enjoy the scenery, kid? I got some cassette tapes in the glovebox.”

“ _Cassette_ tapes?”

“My antenna’s busted. Can’t afford to fix it. This thing don’t got a CD player, neither.”

Cartman popped the glovebox and rustled through  its  con t ents. “What is all this shit? Ancient redneck hymns?” 

“It’s old country, dude. The _real_ kind. They’re my parents’.”

“I’m glad Kenny doesn’t listen to any of it.”

“Oh, he does. Probably just don’t want you to know.” 

Cartman sat up holding a David Allen Coe tape,  t hick eyebrows slanted in indignation at being withheld information about Kenny. “Why the hell not?” 

“He’s weird about certain things.” Kevin grabbed the tape and shoved it into the radio, resettled behind the wheel. “It’s not too bad. You might like it.” 

David Allen Coe’s bourbon twang poured out through a film of static that hitched with every bump in the cracked asphalt. _You're as smooth as_ _Tennessee_ _whiskey... You're as sweet as strawberry wine_ _..._

“I think I’ve heard this on the radio,” Cartman said.

“Some fags tried remaking the song. It ain’t as good as the original, obviously. This shit’s uncut.”

“I can see its merit, I guess.”

“Aw, shoot.” Kevin sent him a fanged grin. “We’ll make a country boy outta you yet, Eric.”

It was the first time he’d used Cartman’s  actual name. Kenny  had a habit of saying it under his breath ,  imbued with prayer ; Kevin wasn’t so sentimental—he lobbed the four letters like a buckshot. 

Cartman looked out the window with a dry chuckle. “Alright, Kevin. You try your level best.”

He watched the pines roll past, and Kevin watched him. The kid was such a complicated bundle of contradictions, sometimes Kevin wanted to gut him like a duck to see what’d pour out. He had an inkling he would regret it, once he did.

They arrived at their destination by the time the cassette needed flipped: a shoebox dive bar, sequestered at the base of the mountains in its lonesome on a long stretch of back road. Kevin’s pickup occupied nearly half the parking lot.

“What’re we _here_ for?” Cartman asked, after they climbed out of the truck. “I’m only eighteen.”

“I’ll vouch for you,” Kevin said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Are you some gangbanger cowboy, or something?”

“Got a bit of a reputation, is all.”

Cartman narrowed his eyes at the establishment bedecked in daylight neon, zipped his jacket to his throat. “I dunno if it’s my scene, man.”

“Nobody’ll screw with you. You’re with me, first of all. Second of all the only people here at noon is old drunks, and they’re harmless. Relax, kid.”

“Quit _calling_ me that.”

Kevin lead him indoors to an expected affair—dark lights, dark mahogany, dark faces. The bar and tables sticky with tap beer. A couple pool tables sat in the way back ringed by arcade machines and, further down, a gambling nook.

Kevin sidled onto a stool and patted the one beside him. Cartman obliged, his ass so big he could probably suck the cushion up his butthole. Kevin bet he’d like it, too.

A sexy little brunette facilitated tips with her cleavage at the other end of the bar, curlicue tramp stamp visible underneath the hem of her blouse.

“You know her?” Cartman asked. He’d already commandeered a complimentary bowl of peanuts.

Kevin nabbed one and broke the shell with his thumb and forefinger, held it over his mouth. “Yeah,” he said, after chewing.

“If you brought me here to be your _wingman—_ ”

“Cartman. Don’t take this personal, but I wouldn’t bring my little brother’s _boyfriend_ to be my wingman anywhere.”

“I’m not—uh, I dunno if Kenny—”

“Uh-huh.” Kevin scourged his jean jacket for some quarters before the kid gave himself an aneurysm. “Go rack a game of pool while I order us some drinks.”

Cartman slid to the floor, scraping the change into his hands. “I can’t stomach anymore Pabst, I swear to God.”

“I’m not getting beer,” Kevin clarified.

“You’re not gonna make me take a shot of tequila off that girl’s belly button, are you?”

“You’re so fucking paranoid.” Kevin whipped a light kick at his leg. “Loosen up a little.”

“I want you to know that I regret every single life decision that’s lead me to being here with you,” Cartman announced, before whisking off.

Kevin watched him out the corner of his eye, then folded his hands under his nose and gave a sharp whistle.

The brunette looked over her shoulder, lips curling in a salacious smile. She waved at the old wisecracks she’d been humoring and scooted in his direction.

“Shantelle,” he greeted.

“Kevin.” She busied herself folding a rag, downturned eyelids clumped with drugstore cosmetics that gave her delayed upward glance even more of an impact. “Haven’t seen you ‘round in a minute.”

“Family shit.”

Her glossy mouth formed a concerned pout. “Anything serious?”

“Eh.”

Shantelle knew how to take a non-answer commiserating with fools like him, and glided right past his dismissal. “You here for a drink, or? My sister can take over. We can go out back—I got an IUD last month, so.” She trailed her fingers across his forearm. “No condom.”

“Much as I’d love to slide into ya bareback, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Kevin nodded at Cartman. “Y’see that kid? He’s with me—legal, though; it’s alright.”

Shantelle raised from her succubus stance and started wiping stout whiskey glasses. “Why’re you stuck with him?”

“Uh.” Kevin chewed the inside of his cheek, unsure whether Kenny would appreciate him spreading his sexual/romantic inclinations. “He’s friends with my brother.”

“Why isn’t Kenny here, then?”

“He’s pouring cement back home. Figured his buddy was bored as shit, so—”

“Can’t he go home?”

“Not really.”

Shantelle stilled. “You helping him outta some bind?”

“Kind of. It’s complicated.”

“Well.” She swung the rag over her shoulder and braced her palms on the bar. “I know your family’s good for it. He’s lucky he’s friends with Kenny.”

“He really is. Kenny—he’s pretty dedicated to him.” Dedicated enough to kill a man.

“Hey,” Shantelle said. Kevin looked up. “Seriously, is everything okay? You seem, I dunno. Off.”

“I’m just, uh.” Kevin scratched the bridge of his nose with his thumbnail. “It’s been a weird couple weeks.”

“Does it have to do with that kid?”

“Cartman’s his name—or, that’s his surname, at least.”

“Cartman… I feel like I’ve heard that, somewhere.”

“He used to live in town. Before stuff got bad.”

“Maybe my sister knows him.”

“Maybe. She’s Kenny’s age, ain’t she?’

“Yup.” Shantelle popped her lips. “She wants the hell outta here. She’s going to community college the second she graduates. In the summer. Got in on grants.”

“Good for her.”

“Kenny got any plans?”

Kevin laughed. “No. I think he just wants to paint pictures in the backyard the rest of his life.”

“That wouldn’t be too bad, long as he’s working.”

“He picks up odd jobs here and there.” Kevin shrugged his jacket off and tossed it onto the bar, lighter and smokes in his breastpocket thudding audibly against the wood. “The guy’s not really fit for general society.”

Shantelle sneaked another glance at Cartman. “What about his friend? He’s having a hell of a time over there.”

Kevin followed her gaze where Cartman was bent over a pool table, racking balls with minute precision.

“Cartman’s alright,” he said. “He doesn’t look it, but he’s smart as a whip. I don’t think he gives a damn about anything, is the problem.”

“Can’t say I blame him.”

Kevin swiveled back to face Shantelle. “Yeah, me neither. I mean—look at us. We’ll be meeting up at this bar till we’re dead. Stuck here forever.”

“That’s what older siblings do,” she said. “You still gonna fuck me in the walk-in when I’m old and wrinkly?”

“Long as you’ll give me time for the Viagra to kick in.”

Her breasts shook with a peal of laughter. “Oh, man.” She tucked her brown hair behind her ears, revealing modest earrings. “You wanna keep chitchatting, or get a drink?”

“Two Jack Daniels and Coke.” Kevin rifled for his wallet, handed her a twenty. “Keep the change.”

“Damn.” Shantelle punched the cash register. Her manicured nails shuffled singles which she stuffed into her back pocket. “Think he’ll be okay?”

“Look at him. I think he can handle liquor.”

“I dunno, Kevin,” Shantelle cautioned. She plucked a bottle of Jack off the shelf, smacked two glasses onto the counter. The bottleneck gurgled between her fingers. “Sometimes looks can be deceiving.”

“ _Your_ looks haven’t deceived me a day in my life.”

She pushed the drinks towards him. “Go babysit—and thanks for the tip.”

He stood up and tossed his jacket over his arm, giving her a wink. “I got another tip for ya—I’ll come back sometime later, without the kid.”

“Oh, I’ll be holding my breath.”

Cartman awaited him at the pool table, wielding a cue like a Roman soldier. “Finally. I thought you were gonna jump across the bar and tear her pants off.”

“I wanted to.” Kevin placed their whiskeys on the edge of the table. “Shantelle’s always a good time.”

“Her name’s _Shantelle_? Pfft. How apropos.”

Kevin needed to start carrying around a pocket dictionary, with how Cartman talked. He folded his jacket over the back of a nearby chair and grabbed a cue for himself. “You ever play?”

Cartman’s jowls squinched. “Not really.” Which meant never, Kevin deduced.

“It’s easy,” he said. “You just aim and shoot.”

“I figured _that_ much.” Cartman swiped one of the whiskey glasses. “What’s this?”

“Jack Daniels.”

“Oh.”

Kevin lifted an eyebrow. “You’ve had it before, right?”

“I’ve only had beer,” Cartman admitted. “Your guys’ PBR. Sometimes I’d steal my friend Stan’s Miller Lite, if I was desperate.”

“Huh. You’re kidding. No hard liquor?”

“Nope.”

“What about one-shooters, or something?”

“Kevin—do I look like I go _partying_?”

“Guess not.”

“I think it’s a waste of time.” Cartman had a tendency to drag out conversations, especially when he hadn’t yet asserted dominance. “I mean, why the hell do I wanna go to somebody’s house, hang out with people I hate, get shit-faced, and then remember none of it the next day—but get sick anyway? I’d be suffering for _nothing_.”

“I was never big into it, either,” Kevin said. “Me and my buddies—we’d steal our dads’ whiskey, go out to the mountains.”

“And do _what_?”

“Drive around. Shoot stuff—beer cans and shit. It gets old after awhile.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t get frostbite. Being drunk gets your blood pumping but it’s all over the place. Redistributed, and not where it’s supposed to be. Plus it’ll turn you into a moron, so the hypothermia already has a head start tricking you into thinking you’re warm, when you’re not, and your body can’t even fight it.”

“You know a lot of stuff, don’t you?”

“It’s common sense.”

Kevin tongued his bottom lip, thinking. “I dunno. _I’ve_ got common sense. Kenny’s got common sense. Shantelle, too. You’re—you’re like a walking encyclopedia.”

Cartman bristled. “Are you calling me a nerd? Have you ever even seen an encyclopedia, _Kevin_?”

“I’m _trying_ to compliment you.”

“Oh, well.” Cartman slouched on one leg. “I like being informed. It helps you see through people’s bullshit. Most people don’t know what the hell they’re talking about.”

“Why the hell are you flunking, then?”

“The _education_ system is a joke. I don’t measure my intelligence by a bunch of numbers and charts and standardized tests. It weakens the mind. Turns your brain into a mouse, for their maze. I don’t need anybody’s cheese. Hey, wait—” Cartman swung his glass out, brandishing a finger. “You’re fucking— _fathering_ me!”

Kevin lifted his hands. “I wanna get to know you!”

“Why? I don’t need no _daddy_.” Kevin quelled a double take; Cartman’s pitch had chafed into something resembling Kenny’s, for a second. “I’ve managed fine without one.”

“Listen.” Kevin rounded the pool table, matched his hardened gaze. “You’re screwing my little brother, aren’t you?”

Cartman stumbled back a step. “Uh—”

“ _I_ don’t care. But if you’re serious about Kenny, then I’m serious about _you_ , so—” Kevin grabbed his own whiskey, clinked it against Cartman’s. “We’re gonna have a drink, and play pool, and get to know each other.”

“Yeah,” Cartman mumbled. “Sure.”

“Bottoms up, butt monkey,” Kevin toasted.

He downed half his glass. Cartman took a sip, scrunched his nose, then followed through.

“Whatcha think?” Kevin asked.

“It’s not bad,” Cartman shrugged. “Not really good, either.”

“Anything tastes good, once you’ve been drinking long enough.” Kevin pinched Cartman’s glass between his fingers and deposited both onto the table where he’d left his jacket. “This guy I knew, he made moonshine in his kitchen. Tastes like gasoline. We had about three jars.”

“Get your stomach pumped, after?”

“No, but I think I lost a chunk of my liver.” Kevin lifted the plastic triangle Cartman had so attentively arranged on the pool table and slapped the cue ball down. “Your break.”

“Fine.”

The kid bent over, jacket bunching with fat, and positioned the cue between his fingers all wrong.

Kevin rolled his eyes. “Move over. Lemme show you. What’re you—right-handed?”

“Yeah. Aren’t you?”

“I’m a leftie. So’s Kenny.”

“I knew _that_.”

“Sure you do. People jack each other off with their dominant hands.”

“I’d appreciate it if you stopped being a fucking pervert. Why the hell are you so interested in Kenny’s sex life, anyway?”

“’Cause it’s been pretty much non-existent, up till now.”

Cartman’s eyebrows shot into his bangs. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” Kevin leaned his hip into the pool table; this required an interlude. “What, did he tell you different?”

“I assumed he was—opportunistic. He told me he’s not a virgin.”

“He isn’t,” Kevin affirmed. “He’s been with some girls—couple guys, too. Just so you know it’s not a dick versus pussy thing.”

“He never said anything to _me_ about it.”

“Probably ‘cause it never lasted long enough. He never stayed with anybody.”

“Oh.”

“Probably ‘cause none of ‘em were _you_.”

“Jesus—” Cartman went all iron-hot again. It was too damn easy to rile him up. “That’s—gratifying.”

Kevin didn’t want him getting a superiority complex. “Or maybe he just has a thing for brunettes. I do too, you know.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Cartman drawled. “Now, can you show me how to do this, already?”

Kevin snorted. “Okay, so.” He hefted his cue into his left hand. “I’ll show you how I do it, then you do the opposite. See where I’m holding the stick?”

Cartman mirrored him. “Yeah.”

“Okay, now.” Kevin aimed the tip of his cue down and laid his right hand on the pool table’s green felt. “Don’t try anything fancy, starting out. Just put it on your thumb, like this.” He glanced at Cartman’s paw beside his own. “There you go, kid. You got it. Aim it right at the middle of the cue ball.”

“Now what?”

Kevin straightened, thunking his cue to the floor. “Now you shoot the damn thing. Don’t be all uptight about it—you ain’t stabbing anybody.”

Cartman’s brow furrowed in concentration. He bit his lip, reared his elbow back—

The balls clanked apart, smooth as butter.

Cartman stood up. “How’s that?”

“Not bad,” Kevin said. “You’re a quick study, kid.”

“I told you to quit calling me kid.”

“Maybe I will by the time you and Kenny tie the knot.”

Kevin walked around to the cue ball before Cartman worked himself into a tizzy. “Corner,” he called, and fired off a tricky shot just to bust the kid’s balls. The cue ball twirled in an arc, knocked the 2-ball into the corner pocket just as he’d predetermined. A slam goddamn glorious dunk.

“Well, screw me,” Cartman huffed.

“I’ve been on this earth a lot longer than you,” Kevin said. “Played a lot more pool.”

Cartman frowned. “You’re only, like, five years older than me, aren’t you?”

“Yup. And I’ll hold every one of ‘em over your head.”

“Y’don’t gotta be so _antagonistic_.”

Kevin paused, hand held aloft over his drink. “I’m _what_?”

“It means you’re creeping me out.”

Kevin swished a pull of whiskey, sucked his teeth. “Listen,” he said. “Don’t get the wrong idea. I like you, Cartman. But—Kenny’s done a lot for you. More than you know, alright? I just wanna make sure you’re worth it.”

“Of course I’m not worth it.”

Kevin blinked. “What?”

“I’m not stupid.” Cartman set his cue against the pool table, crossed his arms. “You think I don’t know Kenny’s way too good for me?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Well, I mean it. The only reason I’m _here_ right now is ‘cause of him. And I’m not talking about this dumpy bar.”

“Shit.” Kevin glanced down at the half-melted ice in his empty glass. “I didn’t know.”

“You don’t have to worry about me talking advantage of him or breaking his heart or what-the-hell-ever, if that’s what this is all about,” Cartman continued. “He’s probably gonna be the one breaking _my_ heart, anyway, once he realizes—well.”

“Aw, dude—” Kevin’s eyes flicked up. “That’s not gonna happen. Kenny’s obsessed with you.”

Cartman’s frown deepened into a scowl. “Oh, please.”

“No—I’m _serious_!”

The kid jumped at the sincerity in Kevin’s voice; Kevin had shocked himself, even. He traded his glass for his jacket. “Let’s talk about this outside. I need a smoke, anyway.”

There was a back door that led to a fenced beer garden. Kevin elbowed it open and ushered Cartman ahead. He dropped into a shitty plastic chair, looking miserable. Kevin stood beside him, propped a boot on the fence, lit a cigarette. Dead leaves swirled into the alcove and gathered in the corner where a space heater sat dormant.

Kevin sighed a cloud of smoke. “You’re kind of a huge idiot, for somebody who’s so smart.”

“Tell me about it,” Cartman grunted. He’d brought his whiskey—gulped the last of it without trouble. Function over flavor. A damn quick study.

“Kenny’s crazy ‘bout you, really. Don’t think for a second he ain’t.”

“That makes him the idiot, then.”

“Ugh.”

Kevin didn’t know how his brother survived all these years, with this guy. You could be pissed at him one minute, feel bad for him the next, then get pissed all over again. Kenny was a naturally caring person—Karen was evidence of that—but even _he_ had his limits; unless he was more a martyr than had Kevin thought.

“Eric,” he said, to establish the shifting tone. He hooked another chair with his boot and sat down. Cartman wouldn’t look at him. “It’s nice that you’re like, humble—”

“It’s not _humility_ ,” Cartman interjected. “It’s _humiliation_.”

“Whatcha mean?”

“Christ.” Cartman blew a sigh out of his nose, his cheeks already growing ruddy. “I’m a fucking—train wreck,” he said. “I’m a fifteen car pileup of a human being.”

“So’s everybody else.”

“Not Kenny.”

“ _Yes_ Kenny.”

“Kenny’s a godforsaken _saint_. I keep waiting for him to sprout _angel_ wings.”

“Kenny’s a ratty-ass good-for-nothing hick. I’m his brother, so I can say that.”

“Bullshit.”

“The kid hangs at the junkyard like it’s a fucking playground. Once, he was on this kick where he’d go out looking for roadkill.”

Cartman finally lifted his head. “What?”

Kevin emptied another drag out the corner of his mouth. “He’d put flowers around ‘em. Take pictures of it and paint it. He’s got ‘em, somewhere—all these paintings of dead animals with their guts out in a ring of daisies.”

“That just illustrates my point.”

“It does not! It’s weird. It’s gross. He’s a gross person.”

“This is all arbitrary,” Cartman said. “He’s nasty, I know that. I’m not talking about his _habits_. I’m talking about his _constitution_.”

There he went, throwing that word around again. “What’s the deal?” Kevin asked. “You got a hard-on for the Declaration of Independence, or something?”

“I believe people’ve got bedrock. A foundational personality. It’s laid when you’re young, and there’s no getting out of it. Kenny and mine’s—they’re diametrically opposed.”

“I dunno what that means.”

“I’m saying we’re composed of different material.” Cartman slapped his empty whiskey between his feet—glass on cement, a punctuation mark. “That’s all there is to say.”

Kevin looked towards the backdrop mountains, their snow-capped peaks threatening to spill through the slats in the fence. “Kenny don’t care about psychological shit like that,” he said. “Kenny takes people for who they are. You’ve gotta have something good in you if he’s so enamored.”

“I’m roadkill,” Cartman said. “He can put as many flowers around me all he wants, but there’s no disputing it.”

“I’m not here to change your opinion about yourself,” Kevin said, reorienting his gaze. “But—let Kenny _have_ this. He don’t have much.”

Cartman’s mouth scrunched. “I’m not keeping anything from him. I’ll lay myself on the chopping block.”

“It’s not that. He doesn’t wanna pick you apart. He wants to, like, put you back together.”

“I can’t be put back together. There’s nothing to put back.”

“This isn’t about you,” Kevin insisted. “Stop being so self-centered. This is about Kenny.”

Cartman stared, waiting for him to finish—the tense air between them a live wire ready to ignite, which wouldn’t do anyone any good.

Kevin smoked on it for a bit, till his cigarette singed the filer. He lit another, and resumed: “Kenny’s always been talking ‘bout you,” he backtracked. It was obvious the kid didn’t know the full story. “Cartman this, Cartman that. Cartman’s a fucking idiot. Cartman said a funny joke. Cartman everything. All damn day, every day.”

“Oh.” Cartman’s anger simmered to bemused consternation. “I didn’t know that.”

“Well, now you do. He’s had a thing for you for years. Now he’s finally got you, living at our _house—_ circumstances be _damned_ —”

“Hold it,” Cartman snapped, on the offensive again. “What’s _that_ mean?”

Aw, fuck. Kevin scrubbed his hair off his forehead. “It’s nothing. I don’t know.”

“I never took you as a liar, Kevin.” Cartman rustled to his feet—his whiskey glass knocked, rolled against Kevin’s boot—“What did Kenny tell you?”

“No details,” Kevin swore, which was true. “I swear to Jesus, Eric. Put a Bible out, and I’ll lay my hand. He just—told me enough. I don’t know _what_ the hell happened, besides it being real bad.”

“Why? Why the hell did you need to _know_ anything?” Cartman demanded, the cold Colorado sun eclipsed by his hulking shoulders.

This wasn’t how Kevin had expected everything to go down, but there was no getting around it. “He wanted to rough the guy up a bit, is all.”

“He went and saw _Ted_?”

Kevin nodded.

“Agh—!” Cartman pivoted, sent his chair clattering into the fence, stomped a couple fumed paces. “What the fuck! What the _fucking—_ shit! He shouldn’t be within a one hundred mile _radius_ of that bastard!”

“I went with him! It was all good—I kept an eye on the whole ordeal,” Kevin assured. He threw the body in a lake, too. “Cartman—just, take a breath. You’re gonna blow a gasket, kid.”

“My gasket’s already blown!”

“Okay—alright, now.” Kevin stood up, disposed of his cigarette. “I get that you’re pissed, but—that’s my point. Kenny did it for you. He _loves_ you, man.”

Cartman froze, his back turned and trembling. “Did you kill him?”

Kevin approached like he was a wild animal. “Eric—”

“I need to know.”

Kevin’s lips pursed. “I might’ve contributed to the procedure, but. It was Kenny. Kenny was the one who did it.”

“Oh. Oh, _God—_ ”

Kevin caught him as he wavered. “Nobody’ll ever know. Nobody but you, me, Kenny, and the Lord. Trust me. It’s over and done with.”

“I wanna go home,” Cartman moaned. “I wanna see Kenny.”

“You need to cool off.”

“Kevin, please—”

“No, really.” Kevin brushed Cartman’s bangs back, the way he’d seen Kenny do; Cartman deflated at the familiar comfort, sank deeper into his arms. “You can’t walk in all fired up. Just—sit with it, for awhile. I’m right with you, man. You ain’t alone.”

Cartman spent a few minutes hacking wet coughs into Kevin’s jacket. He ejected himself once he got recollected, looked at Kevin with watery eyes. A baby buck in headlights. “So, what?”

“We’re gonna go back,” Kevin said. “We’re gonna have another drink, and finish our game of pool.”

“But—”

“No buts. I’m practically your older brother, now. And you’ll do as you’re told.”

With that, Kevin heralded him inside, then went off to the bar.

Shantelle poured another two glasses of Jack and Coke upon seeing his face. “What happened?”

Kevin dug his elbows into the wood and bowed his head, hands clasped. “Christ, Shantelle. It’s bad.”

“You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah. Dunno about the kid.”

“What’s his story?”

A door swung open, terminating Kevin’s reply. Shantelle’s little sister strode out toting a box of fresh limes. “Hey, Kevin—” Her pretty features stuttered at his morose expression. “What’s wrong?”

She looked a lot Kevin thought Karen would in the future, so he’d always held a soft spot for her. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, schooled himself to neutrality. “Nothing.”

Shantelle turned. “Don’t concern yourself with other people’s business, Tammy. Kevin’s alright.”

Tammy didn’t listen; she was a lot like Karen in that regard, too. “Is it Kenny?”

“No,” Kevin said. “Well—kinda.”

Her gaze roved towards the foreign form hunched in shadows by the pool table. “Is that Eric _Cartman_?”

Shantelle flicked Kevin’s shoulder. “See? I said she’d know him.”

Kevin scoffed. “He’s been at our house for ‘bout three weeks,” he told Tammy.

“Why?”

“He’s got some trouble back home. We’re helping him out.”

“Oh, that’s nice. Him and Kenny are always together. I’m sure Kenny’s over the moon.”

“He loves it,” Kevin said. “They fight like cats and dogs, though.”

“Same as school, then,” Tammy nodded. “He’s kind of an asshole, though.”

“I figured that out pretty quick. It ain’t too bad, once you get to know him.”

“How long’ll he be staying with you?”

“Long as he needs. But I dunno if Kenny’ll give him up.”

Tammy’s eyebrow quirked. “Oh, really?”

Kevin glanced at Shantelle, but she crowded him all curious, too. Totally unfair—no man could survive the Warner girls’ double-team; everybody knew that.

“Look,” he whispered. “Y’can’t _tell_ nobody—”

“They’re dating, aren’t they?” Tammy asked. Her mouth spread in a grin at Kevin’s abashed avoidance. “I always knew it!”

He paused. “You did?”

“Oh, c’mon. It’s obvious.” She flicked her hair over her shoulder, a mini-Shantelle move that’d have the boys drooling, here pretty soon. “Even when we were kids—when I was with Kenny—he never shut up about him.”

“And you don’t think it’s weird, right?”

“I don’t give a fuck,” Tammy said.

“Me neither,” Shantelle added. “I’m kinda offended you’d even ask.”

“You never know, out here,” Kevin said.

The girls sobered. “Yeah,” Tammy muttered. She looked at Cartman again. “Does he even know how to carry himself?”

“I’m trying to teach him.”

“Looks like you got your work cut out for you.”

“Lord knows it.”

“You’ll be in our prayers,” Shantelle said. Her smile softened. “Really.”

“You should get him baptized,” Tammy suggested. “I mean—honestly.”

“I don’t think he abides by all that.”

“Either way, God’s looking out for him, if he ended up on your doorstep,” Shantelle said. She pecked Kevin’s cheek, sweet as sugar, and pushed the Jack and Cokes into his hands. “Those are on the house, by the way.”

Tammy stole the glasses from him before he could even blink. “I’ll take ‘em over.”

“Tammy,” Shantelle hissed.

“I wanna talk to Cartman.”

She waltzed off. Kevin gave Shantelle a hurried wave, then ran after her. “Tammy—hold up—”

He snatched her elbow. Whiskey sloshed over her hands when she turned around. “What?”

“Just—he’s kind of, uh. Dealing with a lot. So don’t torture him, or anything.”

“I ain’t planning on it.”

“Also, I don’t think the thing with him and Kenny’s, like, official. Take it easy.”

“Kevin,” she groaned. “Chill _out_.”

Kevin puttered behind her towards the table. She slammed the whiskeys down next to Cartman’s lowered head, who startled upward, blinking.

“Shit—”

“Hey, Cartman.”

He squinted at her. “Uh, do I know you?”

“Tammy,” she said. “Tammy Warner. I dated Kenny, when we were younger. And a little bit in sophomore year.”

Cartman curled back. “You went to that Jonas Brothers concert.”

“They put out a new album. Isn’t that awesome?”

“Sure.”

Tammy dropped into the chair across from him. “Brought you Jack.”

“Thanks.” Cartman held onto one of the whiskeys for dear life. “Do you _work_ here?”

“Uh-huh.”

“But you’re my age.”

“My parents owned the bar. They’re dead now. My sister runs it—I just help out. Law don’t matter much as it does in town.”

“Oh.” Cartman thumbed the rim of his glass. “Sorry about your parents.”

“They weren’t worth nothing. Overdosed.”

“Rough.”

“My sister raised me. I didn’t lose much.”

“Well, it was nice seeing you.”

Tammy cupped her jaw in her hands; she wasn’t moving an inch. “Kevin said you’re living with the McCormicks.”

Kevin shrugged helplessly at Cartman’s glare—he’d have to learn the Warner girls were indomitable. “Sorry, man. Her and Shantelle forced it outta me.”

“Pussy-whipped coward,” Cartman accused. He swilled a chug of Jack, smacked his lips, and looked back at Tammy. “Yeah. I’m with them, now.”

“That’s cool. They’re good people.”

“They really are.”

Kevin perched on the pool table, chaperoning. Fingers fluttered in his peripheral vision: Shantelle, flagging him down from the bar. He sent her a thumbs-up.

“How’s Kenny?” Tammy asked. “I don’t see him much anymore.”

“Uhh, he’s good. He’s doing good.”

“Must be nice, living with your best friend.”

“It ain’t a _rodeo_ , or anything. But, you know. Nobody else would’ve taken me in, probably.”

“Kenny’s a nice guy.” Tammy flung an elbow over the back of her chair, weaponized a sultry, multi-purpose gaze against the homosexual across from her. “He took care of me when we were together. Very thoughtful. How ‘bout you?”

Cartman copied her stance—less sexy, more ornery. “What about me?”

“Kenny treating you well?”

He barked a laugh. “Just spit it out, girl. I know you’re dying to ask.”

Tammy blinked, surprised at being called out; Kevin shifted uncomfortably—he’d never seen Cartman territorial.

“Go on,” Cartman challenged. “What’s it you wanna know about me and Kenny?”

“Are you together?” Tammy asked.

“Yeah,” Cartman said, his shoulders set with satisfaction, the last of his anxiety abolished. “We’re together, alright. So don’t get any ideas.”

“I’m not that kind of girl. I just wondered. I’m happy for you, honest.”

“Oh.” Cartman didn’t know what to do with himself, having expected a fight. “Uh—thanks.”

“I could never keep up with him,” Tammy confessed. “He’s low-maintenance, most the time. But...”

“Yeah. I know what you mean.”

“Anyway, that’s all I wanted to say.” Tammy slipped out of her chair. “I think you’re good for him. He’s good for you.”

“Um—”

She gave his shoulder a pat. “And—if you ever need somewhere to go, you can come here.” Her brown hair curtained Cartman’s face—she might’ve kissed his cheek, or whispered in his ear; Kevin couldn’t tell. She straightened with a smile. “God bless you, Eric Cartman.”

Cartman hurled a glance at Kevin once she walked away. “What was _that_ all about?”

“Chicks, man. Be thankful you don’t have to worry about ‘em.” Kevin hopped to the floor, clutched his whiskey and raised it. “To you being queer—lucky bastard.”

Afternoon unfurled to evening, though neither of them could tell ensconced in the bar’s molasses atmosphere. Kevin splurged four more quarters on a second game of pool after they finished the first, per Cartman’s drunken demand. He lost the rematch, too, but it wasn’t as bad of a loss—he’d watched Kevin’s every move, manipulated his tactics for himself. He’d be a gambling whiz, Kevin bet, already formulating plans to bring him along to the next poker night.

He got all loosey-goosey after a third Jack and Coke. Kevin considered cutting him off, but it was the kid’s first time really drinking, so he didn’t. It made his Pac-Man breakdown amusing, anyhow. He’d been eying the game the whole time they were playing pool and jumped on Kevin’s invitation to check it out.

“It’s all—a pattern,” he said, blown-out pupils reflecting pixelated rainbows. “You just have to know the pattern. It never changes. And the ghosts—they all act different, to box you in.” He slammed the joystick to the left, narrowly avoiding death. “Goddamn it! Fuck you, Pinky!”

Kevin slumped over the side of the cabinet, whiskey held loose in his hand. “What’s that ‘bout the pattern?”

“My reflexes are all screwy. I’m fucking _inebriated_. That Jack’s canned my response time. If I wasn’t—ah, shit!”

The screen cut to black and trumpeted a sad _whomp-whomp-whomp_. Game over.

“Sucks, dude.”

Cartman smacked the screen; fuzzy static sizzled under his sweaty palms. “This is bullcrap!”

“You made it twenty levels, bro. Give it a rest.”

“I refuse! C’mon, Kevin! Gimme another quarter!”

“I don’t got no more coins.”

“Can’tcha go ask Shantelle and make change?”

“I gave her all my cash. You ran me dry.”

“Go fingerbang her or something, then.”

“Hey!” Kevin walloped the back of his head. “She ain’t no _hooker_!”

Cartman whirled in a belated, clumsy dodge. His elbow knocked the glass out of Kevin’s hand. It shattered across the floor in a mess of glass and ice and whiskey. They both froze and stared.

A slender hand curled over Kevin’s shoulder—he muttered a curse and staggered into the arcade machine.

“It’s just me,” Shantelle said, holding a broom and dustpan; Tammy giggled behind her with a mop. “Maybe you boys oughta head home.”

Kevin shook his head clear, more oiled up than he thought. “Uh, okay. Sorry about—uh, that.”

Shantelle squatted at his feet, giving him a bird’s eye view in between her breasts. “Oh, if I got mad every time somebody broke a glass, I’d be dead.”

“Right,” he said.

“Do you want me to call somebody to pick you up?” Tammy asked.

Cartman shifted, waiting for Kevin’s call. He was all red in the face and bug-eyed. Not a very good look. Kevin’s parents would be pissed finding out he took the kid out drinking—and he didn’t even want to think about what _Kenny_ would do to him.

“No,” he said, gathering his wits. “I’m alright.”

Shantelle stood. “You sure?”

“Promise. I’m not that drunk. The cold’ll sober me up.”

“It’s dark out,” Tammy mentioned. “Be extra careful.”

Cartman’s brow furrowed. “Huh?”

“Yeah. It’s like, six.”

“We’ve been here for six _hours_?”

Tammy smirked. “Time flies when you’re having fun.”

Kevin covered his face in his hands. “Shit. Where’s my jacket?”

“I’ll get it,” Cartman said.

Kevin peeked at him lumbering across the bar through his fingers, and dropped his hands only when Shantelle finished sweeping.

“He’s not bad,” she said. “Seems like you two get along.”

“Does it?” Kevin asked.

“Yeah,” Tammy seconded. She plopped the mop down, half of it landing on Kevin’s boots. “You guys have been hooting and hollering all night. Like a couple of coyotes.”

Cartman returned and shoved Kevin’s jacket into his gut. Kevin pulled it on, rooted for his keys then his cigarettes. “Fuck—I’m out.”

“I’ll getcha some more,” Shantelle said.

“Shantelle—”

“I’ll open a tab, and you can pay me back later.”

He followed her tight, twitchy ass all the way to the bar. She pulled a pack of smokes from the cabinet above the cash register.

“I think it’s really nice, what you’re doing,” she whispered, husky as a sled dog. Her hand lingered in Kevin’s palm, blockaded by a red carton of L&Ms. The bar’s back lights twinkled off her earrings. “That kid needs somebody like you in his life.”

“I brought him out here to ream his ass,” Kevin confessed, turned honest under Shantelle’s soft touch and the whiskey buzz. “For my brother. But—I dunno. He’s got a certain charm.” He twisted his nose into her temple, pressed his lips into her cheekbone. “Thanks. For everything.”

She placed her other hand under his chin, guided his mouth to hers. Kevin liked her best, like this. Not with her pants down in the walk-in screaming his name, but quiet with her clothes on, her nails catching on his perpetual scruff as a country love song warbled above their school-kid kiss.  _Chances are I took the wrong turn,_ _e_ _very time I had a turn to take…_

He parted before his mind turned into stew, but only by a centimeter. “I have to—go,” he said.

“What’re you gonna do?” she asked.

“Drive around. Cool off. Might take him up and let him shoot my rifle.”

“Kevin—” She squeezed his wrist. “He’s drunk as hell.”

“He needs to shoot a gun, Shantelle.”

She relinquished her hold on him; he stepped back. Game over.

_I_ _t seems I spent my whole life_ _w_ _ishin’ on the same unlucky star… And as I watched you ‘cross the bar room, I wonder what my chances are…_

“Call me when you get home, so I don’t worry.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Footsteps sounded behind them. They both looked up to find their little siblings: Tammy grinning knowingly next to a scowling Cartman.

“Are you done necking?” Cartman asked.

“Yeah,” Kevin said. He pocketed the cigarettes gifted by Shantelle and gave a salute. “Have a good night, ladies.”

“Bye, Kevin,” the Warner girls chorused.

Kevin prodded Cartman towards the front door.

“Wait!”

Shantelle climbed over the top of the bar—and wrapped Cartman in a warm hug.

“It was nice meeting you, Cartman,” she said.

“Oh—uh—” Cartman’s hands floundered at her back. “I liked meeting you, too, Shantelle.”

She let him go. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, after tonight.”

“Okay,” he said.

Kevin grabbed his arm. “Come on, kid. Let’s go.”

A cold gust of wind met them outside. The pickup screeched into the silent night, echoed all down the road and up the mountains. Kevin cracked his window and lit a fresh cigarette, the lighter a flare in the dark cabin.

Cartman curled into the passenger seat, sated and sleepy. He picked his head up off his window once the drive dragged on. “Where are we going?”

“The spot me and my buddies used to go,” Kevin said.

“I can’t drink anymore, dude.”

“Not for that. Thought maybe you could take a crack at shooting some cans.”

“What—seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“But it’s freezing.”

“I won’t letcha get hypothermia, kid. Lay back down. Take a nap. It’ll be little awhile.”

Cartman did as told.  H is body probably forced him to, all petered out. It was kind of cute. Kevin flipped the David Allen Coe tap e,  smoked another few cigarettes. The pines rolled past, turned into shadowy masses that didn’t mean much unless you knew they were there;  Kevin knew every one. 

The pickup’s axles groaned as they gained altitude. She soldiered on, though, proud and true. Kevin parked in the middle of a field circled by forest, his headlights cutting a beam through the trees.

“Cartman,” he said. The kid didn’t stir, so he shook his shoulder. “Eric, hey.”

Cartman shot up with a snort. “What?!”

“Whoa!” Kevin smoothed his hand down his arm. “You’re nervous as an unbroken colt, man. Have you always been like that?”

“Sort of.” Cartman scraped the sand out of his eyes, propped himself on the door. “What time is it?”

Kevin checked the pickup’s glowing analog clock. “Seven sixteen.”

“Damn. Kenny probably thinks I’m dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“Can’tcha call him?”

“I don’t have a phone anymore. I took myself off my mom’s plan.”

“Oh—shit. Why didn’t you tell anybody?”

“’Cause it’s _my_ problem.” Cartman smacked Kevin’s hand away. “Jesus. You think I’m gonna make your parents worry about my _cellular_ service, too?”

“We’re all pay-as-you-go,” Kevin said. “We do it at the Wal-mart. They’d set you up.”

“I don’t _want_ them to. I’ll take care of it.” Cartman twisted his forehead against the cold window to stare across the field; what he saw out there, Kevin didn’t know. “I’ve been looking for a job. To pay you guys back.”

“Man, nobody cares about money—”

“That’s all you care about. You’re scraping the bottom of the barrel. You can’t tell me you aren’t.”

Kevin let out a long exhale. “Yeah, I can’t—”

His flip phone screamed a generic jingle that made them both jolt.

Kevin removed it from his pocket. “I’ll be damned. It’s Kenny.”

Cartman scrambled for the junky thing so quick Kevin didn’t even have a chance to retaliate.

“Kenny,” he gasped. “Hi. I missed you.”

Kevin canted his head back. The kid was wasted.

“I’m out some place in the middle of nowhere,” he said. “I don’t know. We went to this bar—I met some chick named Shantelle. I never knew Tammy _Warner_ had a sister. No, Tammy was nice. It was so weird. What? No! We played pool, and I taught Kevin the finer points of Pac-Man—oh! I sound drunk? Are _you_ drunk? Why the hell are you even _asking—_ ”

“Eric,” Kevin said.

Cartman popped his door open and stumbled into the field. Kevin got out after him. They were screwed.

“I don’t need you to come _pick_ me up, Kenny! You can’t even drive. Whatcha gonna do, walk the whole way? Just stay home. I’ll be back soon. I don’t know _when_! You can’t kick me out to the couch, I’m already _sleeping_ there—”

Cartman noticed saw Kevin watching. He walked outside the headlights’ radius and lowered his voice. He stood there for maybe five minutes. By the time he returned he had the phone clenched in his fist and half-frozen tear tracks down his face.

“Aw, man,” Kevin whined. “You didn’t ask him about Ted, did you?”

“No.” Cartman chucked the phone at Kevin’s chest; Kevin let it drop. “I’d rather discuss how he _killed_ someone for me in person.”

“Then why’re you crying?”

“Because I miss him, Kevin!”

“Okay!” Kevin pocketed his phone. “Do you still wanna shoot cans, or go home?”

“I wanna shoot cans,” Cartman sniffed.

“Alright, buddy. Wait here.”

Kevin retrieved his rifle from his truck, stuffed some ammo into his pockets. He looked up from loading the magazine and jerked his head at Cartman, figuring he needed something to get out of his thoughts. “There’s beer cans in the truck bed. Go find some.”

Cartman, surprisingly, obliged without protest. He marched back with an armful of crumpled Pabst cans. “I got ‘em.”

Kevin lead him towards a rotten fence a ways down. “Rack ‘em up, kid.”

He placed beer can on each post. “Is this somebody’s property?”

“Kind of. The old man died, and his family left it to the weeds.”

“That’s sad.”

“Not really.” Kevin slammed the rifle’s bolt shut. “Otherwise we couldn’t come out here.”

“I guess.”

He brought Cartman back to the truck. “It’ll be like pool, alright? You do opposite of me.”

Cartman nodded. “Okay.”

Kevin dug his heels into the dirt and lifted the rifle. “This back part, here, that’s the butt. You put it in your _armpit_. Not on your shoulder. This ain’t the movies. It’ll blow back and clip your ear, if you do.” He dropped the forestock into his right hand. “This is the forestock. _You’ll_ hold it with your left. Keep it tight—but not too tight. Don’t be scared.”

“I’m not _scared_ ,” Cartman leered.

“We’ll see. Just pay attention.” Kevin flipped the gun on its side and pointed at the safety. “This little knob’s the safety. I’m gonna turn it off, here in a second. Whenever you’re not about to shoot, you put it back on. Don’t forget.”

“I’m not a fucking child!”

“I _know_ that. Why the hell do you think I’m doing this? You’re a man, Eric. It’s about time somebody besides Kenny recognizes it.”

Cartman’s eyes widened, then dropped. “Why d’you call me a kid, then?”

“I call Kenny a kid, too. You’re all kids. I’m the oldest. It’s just what I do. Watch, now.”

Kevin got back into position and gripped the rifle, his trigger finger poised on the stock. He hunched his spine, hacked a wad of spit at the ground, and squinted through the sights.

“Stand firm,” he said. “Pretend your boots are full of cement. Take in a deep breath, hold it, and then—”

A bang exploded at Kevin’s ear canal. Cartman flinched beside him, unused to the noise.

The bullet whizzed and pinged—a beer can popped off the fence, into the grass.

Kevin lifted his head and clicked the safety. “Simple as that.” He passed the gun to Cartman by the forestock. “Here.”

Cartman held it perfect. “Like this?”

“Gorgeous, kid.” Kevin stepped behind him and cupped his hands, just to make sure. Their conjoined shadow stretched into the truck’s beam of light. “You’re a prodigy.”

Cartman’s cheek bunched over the stock with a grin. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Kevin kept a steadying hand between his shoulder blades. “Fire away.”

BAM!

Cartman fumbled backwards into Kevin’s hand, but not too much, considering how top heavy he was. The rifle hopped; he struggled to catch it. Besides the initial shot there wasn’t any sound—the bullet missed the fence post entirely, went deep into the woods.

“Aw, man,” Cartman sighed.

“It was your first time,” Kevin comforted. “You’ve got good form, and that’s all that matters. It’s dark as hell, anyway. I could shoot a can blind, myself, but you’re at a disadvantage. Try it again.”

He reloaded the magazine twice. Cartman didn’t make a target until the final bullet, whereupon he tossed the rifle to the ground and did a little dance. Kevin snatched the gun and clicked the safety, but didn’t want to ruin the kid’s elation lecturing him.

“That was _awesome_ ,” Cartman cheered. “Did you _see_ , Kevin?”

“I saw, kid.” Kevin ruffled his hair. “Good job.”

Cartman laughed—a Joker kind of laugh that climbed in pitch with every successive _hyuck-hyuck-hyuck_. He sprinted out into the field, middle fingers raised. “Woo! Fuck you, world! Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you! Haha!”

Kevin stowed the rifle away, then lit a cigarette and watched Cartman scream his head off through the open passenger door.

The kid finally burnt off all his energy and came staggering back. “Oh, shit,” he panted. “Oh, man.”

“Sit down,” Kevin said. “And shut the door.”

Cartman did as told. He was becoming very obedient, under Kevin’s tutelage. The headlights went off and the cabin lights too, dousing them both black.

“So fucking sweet,” he wheezed. His wind-chapped cheeks, bright pink with alcohol, were visible even in the dark. “That was nuts.”

“ _That_ was just a beer can, man,” Kevin said. “Imagine the rush if you shot something _alive_.”

“Huh? Oh.” Cartman scrubbed some warmth back into his skin. His eyes had cleared by the time he lowered his hands. “Right. Yeah. Y’know—” He trailed off.

Kevin wedged his back against the door and propped his boots on the dashboard, keys jangling in the ignition. He figured it was best to wait to go home _after_ Cartman stopped looking crazy. “What’s that?”

The kid reanimated in segments. “It’s just, I mean. I wondered. Like—how it feels. To kill something. Like that coyote you shot.”

“Oh, well. You get used to it.”

“That’s messed up.”

“No, I mean. You’re still _killing_ something, but. You make peace with it. It ain’t a sin to kill a coyote, or anything. I shot my first duck when I was ten. Bawled my eyes out, too—I’ll admit it.”

The whole truck clanged as Cartman wiggled upwards. He locked his arms around his bent legs. “How did you get over it?”

“My dad told me to say a prayer. And that it would feed the family, so it was alright. You don’t kill something for no good reason. It has to serve a purpose. That coyote—I shot it so it wouldn’t eat yours or Kenny’s face off. And I prayed for it, too.”

The kid went quiet again. Kevin sucked on his cigarette, thinking he’d somehow passed out, until his hushed voice cut the silence open. “What about Ted?”

Kevin wasn’t prepared to answer that question, despite its inevitability. “Shit, kid. I guess it’s like you said earlier. Revenge.”

“I didn’t ask anybody to avenge me,” Cartman said. “I didn’t ask Kenny to do that. I wish he hadn’t.”

“He needed to. He wanted to.”

“Why?”

“To protect you.”

“I don’t need protected. That’s why I’m living all the way out here in the middle of nowhere.”

“Putting space between yourself and a threat don’t make it go away. Like—if I let that coyote loose and we still went to the dump, it might’ve followed us. I would’ve killed it anyway.”

Cartman unfolded himself and started gesticulating—his elbow knocked into the window behind his back, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Ted wasn’t a fucking coyote! He was a _human_ being.”

“Who did something awful to you— _whatever_ it was.” Kevin tossed his cigarette outside, dropped his boots and leaned forward. He caught Cartman’s hands in his own. “Listen to me! Lemme tell you something. Kenny didn’t bawl his eyes out, after. He didn’t shed a single tear. You know what he did? He spit on him. And he kicked him. And he smashed the butt of his rifle into the guy’s face till it looked like spaghetti—”

“Stop it! Shut the hell up, Kevin—”

“No! _You_ asked. Kenny didn’t _pray_ for Ted. He damned him to Hell. And that’s where that son of a bitch is going for what he did.”

“You don’t even know what he did—”

“I didn’t need to know. My little brother wouldn’t ask me to help him murder somebody for nothing.”

“Why’d you let him do it?” Cartman demanded. “Huh? Why’d you let him, if you’re the _oldest_?”

“He would’ve gone out by himself, anyway! That’s the point! I can’t _stop_ Kenny from doing anything—but at least I can be there when he does it. Same way I’m here now, with you! Why’re you so intent on defending Ted, anyway? What’s it matter if he’s dead?”

“I don’t give a fuck about Ted!” Cartman gathered his strength and wrenched out of Kevin’s grip. He landed in a defeated sprawl, all the fight left in him concentrated in his eyes. “I don’t care about _Ted_. I care about Kenny! He can’t just _kill_ somebody like that!”

“He can and he did,” Kevin said. “He’s not broken up about it. Not one bit.”

“He can’t kill somebody like that,” Cartman repeated. “He can’t do that. Not for _me_.”

And there was the crux of the issue—Kevin should’ve known. He sighed and fell with the exhale, caught his forehead in his hands. “Eric. Kenny loves you. He thinks the world of you. You just have to learn to deal with that.”

“I _can’t_.”

“That’s your problem, then. Don’t put it on Kenny. Don’t make it his problem.”

“I’m _already_ his problem.”

“Jesus Christ give me _strength—_ ”

Kevin’s hand snapped out before he could stop himself. He wouldn’t have stopped, anyway, but it was scary how instinct took over.

“Ow!” Cartman’s temple thudded into the glovebox, and he landed jackknifed on the floor. “You bastard!”

“It’s about damn _time_ somebody smacked some sense into you!” Kevin pulled him up by the hood of his jacket and inspected his face, then tossed him away. “You’re alright. It won’t even bruise.”

“You _hit_ me,” Cartman screeched.

“You’re damn right I did, you fucking bitch. I’m sick of your whining all the time.” Kevin reached for his cigarettes and lighter. “ _Goddamn.”_

“I hope you get cancer, you redneck piece of shit asshole moron,” Cartman shouted. “Fucking smoke another one, dick!”

“Shut up, man.” Kevin tossed both items onto the dashboard and swallowed an angry lungful of smoke. “You fucking—idiot kid. You’re lucky I withheld myself. I could break both your fucking legs with one hand, if I wanted.”

“You’re all talk,” Cartman snapped. “You talk all big, saying you’ve got a _reputation_. You’re just a fucking loser, Kevin. You’re gonna die drowning in whiskey, balls deep in Shantelle’s saggy pussy—”

“ _Don’t_ say another word about her, Eric.”

“Okay, I won’t! Her name doesn’t eve _deserve_ being in the same sentence as yours. They should put you two in separate phone books.”

“Man, I’m serious. You cut it out, now.”

“Fine,” Cartman growled. “ _Cocksucker_.”

“That’s funny,” Kevin said. “That’s really funny. _I’m_ the cocksucker. Me. When _you_ were the one sucking Kenny’s cock just last week, you fucking faggot!”

Cartman paled. “You _saw_ us?”

“Yeah! You’re lucky it wasn’t my parents. Or Karen, God forbid. I kept my fucking mouth shut about it, too. Out in the backyard, before Kenny took his dumb painting shack down? You were just gobbling it up, man. You’re probably nothing but a cocksleeve.” Kevin was too pissed to realize what all that insinuated about Kenny’s character, let alone hear Cartman’s mumbled response. “You’re nothing but a fucking butt slut, man. You’re a fucking queer-ass homosexual fairy faggot _whore—_ ”

“We haven’t even had sex!” Cartman yelled.

Kevin’s thoughtless tirade slammed to a halt. “Huh?”

“We haven’t had sex,” Cartman said again. “And nice going, calling me all that shit. Kenny’s gay too—or bisexual—or whatever. Real fucking nice, dickwad. Shows what you actually think about him.”

“Fuck. _Fuck_ , Eric...” Kevin’s mouth opened and shut about twenty times. Finally he decided to occupy himself with his cigarette, didn’t speak again until he flicked it outside. He spent a second watching the breeze dissolve it into embers and carry it away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of that—about Kenny, or you. I’m sorry for hitting you, too. I’m a better guy than this, honest. It’s just—you’re kind of—”

“It’s alright,” Cartman said. “I can be antagonistic, I know.”

Kevin tried for a grin. “I still don’t know what that means.”

“It means I’m an asshole.”

“Well, so am I. I think we’re kind of a lot alike. We got on pretty well, back at Shantelle’s place, didn’t we?”

“I guess.”

“And now look. We’re feeding off each other’s asshole personalities. We’ve got the _constitutions_ of coyotes, you and me.”

Cartman peeked at him. “That sounds kind of badass.”

Kevin chuckled something airless and full of panicked relief, then sighed, with his whole body. “Can I ask you something?”

“You’re gonna ask whether I say yes or no,” Cartman smartly acknowledged. “So go for it.”

“I’m not trying to be a pervert,” Kevin established, “I’m just—I’m curious. You and Kenny really haven’t gone all the way?”

Cartman slumped down in his seat. “No, we haven’t.”

“Why not? If I was your age, and I had a girlfriend living with me—I’d be at it every day.”

“I’ve got issues.”

“Obviously.”

“No, I mean—” Cartman stuck his hands in his pockets and stared out the windshield. “I’ve got _issues_. With all that.”

Kevin wasn’t intelligent like him—but even a retard knew how to put a puzzle together. “Ted,” he breathed, the name an atom bomb. “It’s because of Ted.”

“I wasn’t raped, or anything,” Cartman said. “But—you know.”

“Yeah,” Kevin muttered. “Shit, man. I’m—”

“Don’t say you’re _sorry_.” Cartman dragged his gaze towards Kevin. “That doesn’t mean anything. It won’t change anything, either.”

“Okay, I won’t say it.”

Cartman looked back at the empty field. “We’ve tried. You know. Both ways. It didn’t matter—I freaked out every time. Kenny was nice about it.”

“He’s a good kid,” Kevin said.

“He’s the best,” Cartman agreed. “He’s put up with me for so long. I just wish I could, I dunno. Pay him back.”

“You are, though.” Kevin reached across the gulf of open air between them. Cartman didn’t move, so he placed his hand on his shoulder. “Just being around. Kenny’s always been different. None of us really understand him. But you do.”

“He’s not that hard to understand,” Cartman said. “You just have to read between the lines.”

“Educate me. I can barely read. I’m a dunce.”

Cartman snorted. “Kenny’s an _artist_ , first of all. Everything he does is some creative statement.”

“How?”

“Like that roadkill you told me about. With the guts and the daisies. He wasn’t trying to make any of it _look_ better, otherwise he would’ve left the guts out and only put in the flowers. But he kept both. He thinks nasty stuff is, like, beautiful. It’s a dichotomy.”

“What’s a dichotomy?”

“When two opposite things are compared together in a way that makes them fit against their nature. Kenny’s a very dichotomous person. I mean, look at his hair. He’s got Disney princess hair, but the clothes he wears—he looks worse than a hobo, sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Kevin said, awed at Cartman’s off-the-cuff analysis of his little brother. He could only imagine what Cartman would come up with, if he had the time—a whole essay on Kenny McCormick. “That’s what I’m talking about. That’s what Tammy was talking about. You’re smart enough to keep up with him.”

Cartman’s shoulder stiffened under Kevin’s palm. “I suppose.”

“No, for real. Quit selling yourself short, kid.”

“Anyway,” Cartman said—a punctuation mark. Next sentence. He sat up higher; Kevin’s hand slid and thumped between them. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Kevin said. It was only fair.

“What’s with you and Shantelle? Why aren’t you two together?”

“There ain’t much to it,” Kevin said. We’re just...busy people. Family people. She’s got her sister. I got Karen and Kenny. We got too many responsibilities to think about ourselves.”

“That’s not fair.”

“That’s life, kid.”

“Well, what about later? Like, when Kenny and Karen and Tammy are all doing their own thing?”

“Oh, that’s too far off to tell. I dunno. I think we’ve been holding out for so long, we couldn’t get together even if it were possible. Even if we tried.”

“Huh.” Cartman thought on it. “That sucks.”

“It ain’t the worst. We still fool around a lot. I’m just not the type to settle down, and she ain’t either. I’m like an old cowboy—or I tell myself, anyway.”

“No, I can see it.”

“Thanks, kid.”

“You can’t pull off ass-less chaps, though.”

Kevin smiled. “Good. I don’t want to. But, hey—look in the glovebox. I got something for you.”

“Pfft. What is it? Uncle Cracker on cassette?”

“No, but while you’re in there I want you to pull out the Tammy Wynette and George Jones tape.”

Cartman opened the glovebox and handed Kevin the requested tape, then dove back in. “What else am I looking for?”

Kevin switched the David Allen Coe cassette out and started fast-forwarding to the song he wanted. “It’s in a baggie. It’s not dope, I swear.”

Cartman’s fingers crinkled on plastic. He sat back and held the baggie up. A coyote tooth was zipped inside, fastened to a metal chain. “What the shit is this?”

“It’s from that coyote I shot,” Kevin said. He removed his finger from the radio. Static buzzed, then a guitar and snare whispered out of the speakers. Tammy Wynette’s salt-honey drawl coupled by George Jones’ gravelly croon soon followed. “I was praying that night. And all of the sudden I wanted to go out and get a tooth. Thought it might be of meaning to you.”

“Oh.” Cartman opened the bag and removed the necklace. “Uh, thanks?”

“You don’t gotta wear it or nothing,” Kevin said. “I just thought you should have it. To commemorate your arrival.”

“My arrival,” Cartman said. “This is one hell of a way to welcome me to the family, Kevin.”

“We’re strange folk, if you haven’t noticed. Sit back, now. I listen to this song whenever I’ve got Shantelle on my mind. I think you’ll relate.”

Cartman settled down and lent his ear to the music. Kevin knew it all by heart. The song rose and dipped like a gentle river. Proclamations of joy undercut with a preemptive, sorrowful refrain. The tune crescendoed, instruments modest and supportive beneath the singers’ soulful duet.

_I'm not saying it may soon be over, and loving you will all be in vain… But if loving you starts hurting me, it will still be worth all the pain…_

It was the last track on the first side. The tape stuttered and stopped; the speakers went back to sleep. Cartman sat so quiet Kevin thought he’d fallen asleep, too. But when he looked he found the kid staring at the coyote tooth in his palm, face obscured by his overgrown bangs.

“So?”

Cartman looked up. “It’s a good song. Can we go home, now?”

“Yeah, kid. We can go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> [David Allan Coe - Tennessee Whiskey (brace yourself for the 80s aesthetic)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PgsQ97PEpOo)
> 
> [Lee Ann Womack - Chances Are (a reminder that good soul country still exists)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rDQvnzIYnr8)
> 
> [George Jones & Tammy Wynette - If Loving You Starts Hurting Me (been listening to this non stop whilst writing...chills)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=THKjBi3inN0)


End file.
